Dear Patrick Batman

Bale, sir, I really must insist that you stop this at once.

Having just sat through your utterly inexplicable performance in The Dark Knight, I feel compelled to ask: what precisely is it about that rubber suit which makes your voice drop two full octaves every time you slip it on? I'm curious to know, since I've spent half of the past two movies attempting to make out what the fuck you're saying - a laborious business which is almost as off-putting as that cunt scrunching a crisp packet for the best part of an hour two rows back from me.

While I've got your attention, do you think you can have a quiet whisper in Chris Nolan's ear? It's just that he seems to have got it into his noggin that he's making some kind of profound, weighty treatise on terrorism, vigilante justice and surveillance in the post-9/11 world instead of, y'know, a comic-book movie with explosions and stuff. I wouldn't normally whinge, but we already have Bryan Singer on hand to suck all the joy out of popcorn entertainment. By all means call him a mulleted hack, but at least Joel Schumacher had a sense of humour.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - Do you like Phil Collins? (etc, etc.)

Dear Kanye West

Tried a pair of them glasses of yours on the other day. You can't fucking see anything out of the bastards.

Take them off, you twunt. You look like a right jeb-end.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - Your faux-mockney "rap" on American Boy makes Dick Van Dyke sound like Del-Boy Trotter, and your sampling's getting well lazy. Do better.

Dear Morgan Freeman

Bummer about that car accident, dude.

I hate to state the obvious, but it looks like you've got two choices now: get busy livin', or get busy dyin'. Let's hope it's the former. You were well good in Se7en, and I always held out hope for Hard Rain 2: Hard Rain Harder.

Regards,
Davis.

Dear Jordan (sorry - 'Katie')

I was deeply saddened to hear about your enforced exclusion from a prestigious polo event. I imagine it must have been an absolutely shattering blow, a bit like finding out you've lost a loved one in combat or looking into the toilet bowl to find you're pissing blood.

However, I have to make one slight correction to your heartfelt plea for social equality. When you say that "It's pure snobbery. However good a horsewoman I am, I'm also a glamour model. That embarrassed them", I beg to differ. It's because you're an absolute fucking twat, mate.

Heartfelt regards,
Davis.

Dear Noah and the Whale

Congratulations, cunts, on having birthed the most excruciating irritant since SARS.


Next time the people cry out for a Chris Difford cover of the Teletubbies theme, gizza quick bell, can you? That way I can plug my ears with tar to prevent me ever having to stomach the bastard.

Regards,
Davis.

PS - The Squid and the Whale was crap.

PPS - So's Noah Baumbach.

PPPS - So are you.

Dear Tesco

“Unexpected item – in bagging area”.

Somewhere in Britain, there’s a suited corporate mingefucker who gets paid hundreds upon thousands of pounds to come up with the solution to all our shopping woes. The idea this busybody eventually hit on – and this really is good – was the replacement of half the nation’s supermarket tills with that miracle of modern technology: the talking self-service machine. What an innovation. Why, it’s brilliant! So brilliant, in fact, that ever since they were introduced, the average wait-time to whip through a packet of crisps and some bog-roll appears to have doubled. What a fucking boon!

Now, I have an idea. It’s a wacky one, but hear me out. Here it is:

PUT – A FUCKING – REAL - LIVE - PERSON – ON A TILL.

That’s it. A real person. Preferably one with actual till-training who’s capable of operating the bastard without causing a three-year hold-up. Pay someone £5 an hour to perform this simple task. It’s not that much in the grand scheme of things, especially since you own so much of the nation’s wealth that we might as well all start making voluntary contributions to the company trust-fund out of our monthly pay-cheques as an alternative to National Insurance. The funny thing is though, since you already have two members of staff on-hand to sort out these infernal machines each time they go wrong, you wouldn’t actually have to recruit any extra staff at all.

Why, that’s genius! Can I have my million-pound bonus and stock options now, please?

Self-service machines: a great idea in theory, I’ll give you that much. They just fall flat on two minor counts: one, the fact that most people are incompetent spack-merchants incapable of making the connection between bar-code and scanner, and two, the fact that the wretched things don’t fucking work.

On the plus-side, I did manage to nick a packet of donuts while the attendant was fiddling with the adjacent till this morning, so it’s not all bad news.

Regards,
Davis.

PS – Stop asking me for ID whenever I buy alcohol. I’m nearly 30, for god’s sake.

Dear Federation Against Copyright Theft

I wouldn't steal a car. I wouldn't steal a CD.

I did, however, just shell out five pounds of my hard-earned money for this DVD from a legitimate retailer, so would appreciate it if you could knock it the fuck off already.

Kindest regards,
Davis.